The Revilification of Alex Krycek
by Firefly8
Summary: What Mulder knows can hurt Krycek. (M/K)


DISCLAIMER: //deep breath// The boys are not mine, not mine, not mine, not mine, not mine, not mine.  
THANK YOUs: Shael for the (always) spiffy beta reading job, RavenXI for putting up with this...*g*  
SPOILERS: If you are unfamiliar with the ep SR-819, read at your own risk. Nothing's really given away in this fic, but if you haven't seen the ep, you probably won't understand what's going on in the story. 

**The Revilification of Alex Krycek  
By Halfchild**

When Mulder returns after work, he stalks over to his computer without so much as a glance in my direction. I know what this means and I know what's coming. Mulder you can kiss my ass. I _told_ you long ago that I have no intentions of changing. Not for you, not for anyone. The world does not operate on your standards, and there's nothing you can do about that. And as long as we're at it, why don't you blame me for that one too? 

As if he's able to hear my thoughts, he turns toward me and I can read the accusations in his eyes as loudly as if they'd been spoken. Yeah, well, deal with it, Mulder. I do every day. 

He's up and moving before I have a chance to say anything aloud, or even react to what he hasn't said. He pulls me toward him, pushing his tongue roughly between my lips, and I know that this is some fucking affirmation for him, some sort of way of exacting payment from me for the loss of his father, and Scully's sister, and his precious X-Files, and every other ill he can come close to pinning on me. But I take what I can get these days. I stand up slowly without breaking contact, forcing him to straighten as well. From this point it's only a small distance to the bedroom. 

I awake, hours later, to the incessant drumming of the rain against the bedroom windows. He's flopped over on his side, his leg curled around my waist like a rag doll's. I turn my head, straining painfully against tensed muscles and tendons pulled the wrong way. His face on the pillow behind me is smooth, cheeks still slightly flushed, and I resist the urge to nudge a strand of damp hair back from his forehead. 

Slowly, I disentangle myself from the mess of his body and move wraithlike from the room. There's nothing in the fridge, of course; I should have expected that. So much for eating. I suppose I could read; lord knows I've got enough of it to do. You'd never tell it by the looks of me, but I buy books almost compulsively. Unfortunately, my schedule doesn't exactly allow for much leisure time. Don't be surprised; I never would have pegged myself as a reader either, and the state of my body being what it is these days, it takes significantly longer to get through a single book. Food or the written word... Which will it be? 

I finally settle on an uneasy compromise. Donning my jacket, I slip out of the building and into the cold drizzle awaiting me on the street. I've always liked the rain, so I decide to walk to the Revco; it's only about twenty minutes away on foot. Lost in contemplation along the way, I reach the store quickly. The automatic door slides open silently before me, and I'm met with the ugly yellow glare of fluorescent lighting immediately upon entry. Dazed by the sudden clarity the world has assumed, I move randomly through the aisles, plucking random articles from the shelves and dropping them into my basket. Not the most intelligent way to shop, but it's late, and I don't have the energy to care. The checkout clerk looks at me as though I'm freakin' crazed. Little does she know. 

A quick checkout adventure later, I'm trudging through the rain yet again, equipped this time with a bag filled with assorted junk food, though I'm not exactly sure of its contents. The hazy aftermath of the rain is cool on my face after the artificially heated environment of the drugstore. It must be around 3 am. There's virtually no one out driving at this hour, and I have the street to myself. Pools of water collected by the side of the road refract rainbows from their oily surfaces. Even though it's impossible to see any stars in this city, the streetlights and neon signs lend their own tinted glow to the sky. People wonder how you can survive as a killer, as a wanted man, as a target marked for a hit by more than one organization. _They_ probably never get out of their homes on nights like this. 

Almost before I know it I'm back at Mulder's apartment building. Slinking back from the streetlight, I squint up at the windows, trying to tell if his living room light is on, if the lonely flicker of a TV plays through the thin curtains. As far as I can tell, he's still sound asleep, and so are the other occupants of the building. Good. It'll make getting inside so much easier. Funny how at one point I was inside this building more often than Mulder. When I was breaking in to keep an eye on him, I'd see some of the tenants every day. But now that I actually reside in the place I bet they wonder where I've gone. 

I guide the building door shut behind me, careful not to make any noise. I'd rather not alert anyone to my presence here. In a way, the living arrangements are ideal; I can crash on Mulder's bed all day (he prefers sleeping on the couch, in fact,) and I'm free to roam about all night long, which is when I'm naturally alert. Yet more and more frequently I've stayed inside and just rested my head on Mulder's couch cushions, smelling his scent in the places where he's been. There are so many things I'd take for myself, and for him, and this is as close as I can come to letting him know. 

My jacket hits the foyer floor with a dry _thwap._ I'll hang it up tomorrow; I don't have the energy at the moment. The apartment, like the building on the whole, is completely silent. No cars pass by outside, no neighborhood stray barks, no floorboards creak and settle. I stand for a moment in the foyer, trying to figure out where I fit into this all-encompassing serenity, but then I hear Mulder's soft, deep breathing from the bedroom and I know. 

I settle into a chair across from the couch, my sacred little place in the larger hurricane of Mulder's disordered living room, and open my book. The words spill out across the page in the dim light, finally blurring together until I absorb them through osmosis as my eyes stop moving over the page. The world seems to stop, and I have to wonder how, out of all places, it is here in Mulder's apartment that I feel most anchored. He steadies me. 

Close to sleep as I am, I grow aware of his presence behind me slowly. He's been standing in the shadows of the bedroom hallway for some time now, watching me as I don't read. Slowly, deliberately, I close my book, carefully inserting a finger to keep my place before turning to face him. He stands, hands lax and at his sides, his face blurred by the shifting grey shadows. His eyes are focused on me like searchlights. I wait for him to say something. He doesn't. 

I shrug slightly, unconcerned, and return to my book. So be it. I feel no great need to talk. My eyes roam over the letters, deep jet black in the lighter darkness of the room, and I let the balm of the words they represent soothe me. But gradually the weighted silence creeps through my concentration; his presence behind me intensifies until I can't concentrate on the book any more. I turn a page with perhaps more force than should be used, and the angry shriek of the tearing paper splits through the silence of the room. I can sense his start of surprise as he stands behind me. 

"Dammit, Mulder! What _is_ it?" The serene mood of before is gone, the calm of the earlier evening shattered by Mulder's calculated stiffness. I don't appreciate it. 

When I turn around he's still staring at me with that dull, flat expression in his eyes, his shallow, superficial breathing the only outward sign of his agitation. Something, of course, is bothering him. Still, he says nothing to me. Well, if he's expecting some massive display of emotional concern on my part, he'll be sorely disappointed. Let the mind games begin. 

I continue pretending that I'm reading, and he continues to pretend that he isn't bothering me. My eyes, unfocused, blur from lack of blinking as I sit in my chair, fuming, and turn a page every so often for good measure. Whatever you want out of me, Mulder, you're going to have to learn to ask for it. I don't change for anyone; I don't change for you. 

The silence drags on, seconds into minutes, minutes, perhaps, into hours. I'm not keeping track. If I hadn't turned around that one time, I wouldn't have even known he was there behind me, he stays so still. I can't even hear him breathe. In a way, it's more aggravating than anything else he's done this evening. So fucking polite, aren't you, Mulder? I wouldn't even be able to tell you're standing there, except we both know I feel your presence more acutely than just about anything else in this world. The pressure in the room builds, and I can tell he's going to explode at me any second now. 

His whisper is gentle and strangely hesitant. "Come to bed," he says. 

When I turn around he's still standing there in the hallway, half hiding in the murky shadows thrown over him by the low ceiling. His mouth slips open slightly and he holds out his hand to me. I stare at his outstretched palm, fingers spread slightly in supplication. His eyes are no longer flat but deep and pleading, and something within me responds instantly to their questions. 

I slide to my feet and move across the cluttered floor, quickly negotiating the distance between us. He waits for me patiently, and when I finally reach him he draws me into his arms and leans his head against my shoulder. I reach around him with my one remaining arm, glad that I hadn't bothered to put on my prosthesis tonight, and smooth my hand up and down his muscular back. God, he's tense. He shifts slightly, turning his head away from me so that he can gaze out over my shoulder. I bend and kiss the top of his ear. He snorts, a slight exhalation of air through his nose that I would have missed had I not been expecting to hear it. 

He lifts his head, his soft hair brushing against my cheek, and slips his arm around my waist. I glance at his face, but his eyes are lowered coyly, lashes casting thin, spidery shadows across his cheeks. He presses gently against my back, and I walk with him toward the end of the hall and his bedroom. 

He pauses at the door, unhooking his arm from my body, and I enter the room first. It's a royal mess, sheets half torn from the bed, lying tangled across the floor, witness to our earlier lovemaking. Twining his fingers through my hand, he guides me across the floor and to the bed. I wonder that he's so permissive tonight. 

I slide my hand around his back again and lean in to kiss him. But he'll have none of it, damn moody bastard that he is. He deflects my kiss neatly onto his cheek, and I realize then what the gesture is supposed to mean. Christ, Mulder, you almost fooled me there for a second. 

I fall back onto the bed, pulling Mulder down on top of me. His body is _tense,_ and I wonder what's happened since I last held him in my arms that's made him so uptight. His fingers smooth feather light over my brow, my cheek, my jaw. I close my eyes and let the sensations take over. They slide over my face, my neck, toy with the neckline of my shirt, but do little more. The mattress sags beside me and I open my eyes to find him stretched out along the bed, watching my face with deep concentration. He's searching me for something; I wonder what it is. 

I nod, and his hands smooth down over my chest, curl around the tails of my shirt. I lift myself as best I can, helping Mulder as he undresses me. Working together, we're able to get my clothing off in a decent amount of time; we've had lots of practice. The air is chilly against my skin, damp still from the rain, and it feels good against my exposed skin. I lie back against the bed and watch Mulder as he divests himself of his own clothing. Unlike me, he's able to make short work of it. I used to envy him his two arms, as I envied him everything else, but now I'm just glad for his touch. 

He lies down beside me again, and allows me to kiss my way down his stomach. I press my tongue into his navel, tasting his salty skin, and he flinches at my touch. I harden at his response; nothing is sexier than seeing Mulder aroused. My eyes shut again, and I can feel a smile bloom across my face. (I rarely smile, and when I do, it's usually in Mulder's presence.) His head twists to the side, away from me, and I can't see his face. I drag my face along his heated skin. "Mulder, I'm so _hungry,_" I tell him. 

He makes a soft noise, a moan or muffled exclamation; I can't tell which. His hand drags lazily across the bed, and he guides himself down until he's lying half on, half off the bed. "Oh, Mulder," I whisper. He almost never lets me do this for him. I trace my hand reverently down his back. Goosebumps trail in its wake. 

The lube sits where Mulder left it earlier this evening, and I squeeze the cool gel onto my fingers. Mulder is ready for me, relaxed and calm, and I slide into him easily. He gasps, body bunching up tightly as I begin to move inside of him. He's so warm, so tight, and being with Mulder feels so _good._ I stretch myself along the length of his back, loving the heat of his skin beneath me. If I lay my head near his shoulder, I can hear the powerful beat of his heart deep within his chest. I had been worried earlier, upon returning to the apartment to find him so pensive. But my anxiety melts away with his every touch. I've been imagining his unrest. 

I press myself more deeply into Mulder, and his heat surrounds me until I can hardly bear it. I can feel the hair on his legs, prickly and damp with sweat, as I thrust once more, sheathing myself in him. I'm completely lost inside Mulder, but he always makes me feel that way. He groans softly, and I quicken the pace just a little, settling into a rhythm. My hand clenches and unclenches in the sheets, then I trace it along the profile of his face, half lost to me in the twisting shadows of the room. Sweat rolls down my forehead and down his back, and still I move into him, deeper and deeper, gasping at the intimacy of it. 

Mulder's breathing quickens to match mine as I nip and kiss along his shoulder, stroke my tongue between his vertebrae, tasting the salty tang of his skin. I'm surrounded by the musky scent of him, cocooned in the warmth of his body, possessing him and completely possessed by him, and wonderfully vulnerable. And to think there was a time when I never had this release. 

He moans again, a low, husky sound of defeat that makes me gasp in pleasure. Tendrils of fire shoot along my skin wherever it touches him, and I wonder if he feels it too. There isn't enough air in this room. I shut my eyes and see stars burst against my eyelids. 

I whisper his name over and over until the rhythm of it becomes the rhythm of my thrusts and the rhythm of my heart and my blood, as it begins to creep up along me and before I realize it I'm coming. It pounds through my body, and I'm spilling myself deep within him, shuddering violently as it pours out of me. I rest my head against his shoulder and wait for my heart to stop trying to escape my ribcage. Mulder shifts beneath me, rolling me off from his back. I loop my arm around his waist, fingers tickling toward his erection. It's his turn for release. 

His hand brushes mine away, and, shocked, I withdraw it completely. I lie utterly still for the space of countless heartbeats, waiting for him to roll over, to draw me toward him, but he doesn't. I wait more endless moments before venturing to touch him again. He tolerates it, at least, and I slowly ease my arm back around his waist, but no further. I say his name once, softly, but he doesn't reply. His rejection leaves me shaking. Pressing my face into the crook of his neck, I inhale deep draughts of his scent, and it seems that, just slightly, he's leaned back into my touch. "Mulder," I ask, "What is it? Why can't I touch you?" My voice sounds tight, strained. Perhaps I'm overreacting. Best to ignore him, it. I push all thoughts from my mind and begin the slow descent into sleep. 

His voice, disembodied and devoid of all intonation, floats out of the darkness behind me. "What you did to Skinner was pretty fucking horrible, Krycek." 

....to be continued? 

Firefly Made This!  
trismegistus@drakmail.net 

(c) January 21, 1999 


End file.
